


two ghosts standing in the place of me and you

by gearyoak



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Established Relationship, Mentions of Past Torture, and then this kinda goes into what's left of that, the deputy is just called rook, well I mean I wrote it with the idea that they were together pre game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:14:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearyoak/pseuds/gearyoak
Summary: There were gun cases stacked against the wall, close to the door and up on pallets to avoid the water that tended to flood the room. It would have been risky, if Pratt hadn’t been so thoroughly conditioned, to keep a prisoner locked in a room with a portion of an armory. If he had been able to free himself from his bindings, he would’ve been able to take out enough Peggie’s to make a sizable dent before they’d finally put him down. He wouldn’t have let them take him alive again. But Jacob never portrayed himself as a fool or much of a risk taker. He was confident and sure, sure that Pratt wouldn’t even attempt to escape, would sit in that chair with or without tape holding him down. Jacob put him in that storage room where he’d be reminded that he was lesser, because even other captives were fed - all a part of the process - and even the guns passed to the greenest of the Faithful were better treated, more respected. Jacob wanted him to know that while he suffered.But Jacob was dead and Pratt wasn’t.





	two ghosts standing in the place of me and you

**Author's Note:**

> so I'm reuploading this because it didnt show up in the tags so??? idk round two lmao
> 
> doooooo you guys ever think about that one part when you save pratt, and in the cutscene he asks if youre real? I haven't stopped thinking about it tbh.
> 
> anywho, I decided to write this with a nameless deputy, using Rook instead of my own dep to make it more Relatable To The Kids. it touches on the usual stuff: torture, manipulation, brainwashing, death, the word weak, you know. also I edited this while trying to occupy a puppy in my lap so he didn't chew my laptop's wires, so if there's glaring and horrible, terrible, disgusting-to-look-at mistakes, call me out. write a post. make me cry.

For the longest time, the only sounds he had heard was the buzzing of the televisions, his own screams when the speakers crackling had cleared enough to play it, and the wheezing in his chest on every exhale. The loop of the tapes played out separately enough times and the audio would match up with less interference, he would hear another person. Not loud enough to discern any words, but he recognized the voice. He still heard it for a time, even after the loop started again and the televisions has fallen out of sync, whispered at the back of his skull. He used to use it to tell time, to track how many hours he’d been sitting, waiting. Then he must have passed out, or maybe the tapes skipped - either way, he lost a sequence somewhere, which meant he lost time. **  
**

The voice had been persistent after that, with nothing else to focus on now that he had no reason to count.

_weak traitor betrayer weak weak traitor judas weak_

The footsteps had been deafening, and his spine would have snapped straight in fear if it had been a few days ago, when his body had last moved for him. Maybe they had finally decided to stray over to his side of the bunker and finish him. He hoped, didn’t quite believe it, but he still hoped that after everything they had done they would show him mercy with a quick death.

He sat still, waited for the bullet in his head he wished he could beg for.

The fall of the boots against concrete thundered closer and ragged breathing that wasn’t his own drowned out the hell around him, then there was a hand on his neck. It was gentle, shocking him into twitching. Not a Faithful. Not one of His. They were not to touch, and if they were permitted to, it was not to be kind. Fingers pressed into the skin just under his jaw, searching, and he felt his eyes flutter in an attempt to identify whoever it was. Not a Faithful. Not one of  _His_.

The ragged breathing hitched when they noticed him moving, when their eyes met.

“Rook?” The glow of the TV screens colored the man a shade of blue; strange and out of place, like he had been painted into reality rather than made from it. He blinked a few times sluggishly to clear his vision from the blurred and smudged edges to better determine whether or not the paint was real. He wanted to reach out, to see if it was still wet, to see if it was there for good.

The man watched him carefully, knelt down without moving his eyes away from his, and grabbed at his knees with gloved hands like he was the only thing holding the man down to the concrete floor. “Fuck, holy shit,” he muttered, voice shaking, a stark contrast to the steady grip, thumbs rubbing firm little circles into the ratty fabric of his jeans. “ _Fuck_ , shit.”

It was different than the other times, more vivid than when he’d caught sight of him standing in the corners or just inside his line of sight, gone when he double checked to see if it was him actually there. He’d known what it was. Jacob talked a lot about what a mind does to the body when it’s being broken down. But that was new. He could hear him, hear him and feel him and he could close his eyes and open them and he was still there.

Pratt’s throat closed when he tried to force his voice from it, so he swallowed and didn’t wince when it burned and stung. Rook shifted around, pulled something from his belt, and then Pratt’s arm fell into his lap. It didn’t feel like his own when he moved it, but it reached for the collar of the man's bomber jacket and held on when he thought to do so. Once his other arm was free, the hunting knife clattered to the floor and Rook’s hands went to Pratt again, ready to catch him if he fell forward. He didn’t; just kept staring with his half-lidded, disbelieving gaze locked on to Rook’s face and his hands on his shoulders to remain upright.

Rook sat there, waiting for him, until he finally spoke again. “Are you real?”

His face twisted like it was in pain, but when he stood up Pratt couldn’t see any visible wounds on him. Rook didn’t answer, but the grip that pulled him to his feet felt real enough. He leaned on the other heavily, shaking so bad his teeth nearly chattered, and he took a few deep breaths. He realized that he was petrified. Scanning the room, waiting for a haze of red to swallow him whole, to see him standing there, anywhere, his arms crossed and his voice disappointed despite the absolute glee clear in his face.

He felt like this was a test, and that he had already failed. _Again. Do it Again. You're better than this, aren't you, Peaches? Again_.

“He said I was weak,” Pratt said suddenly, pushing off of Rook to stand on his own. He didn't know who he was talking to; Rook, himself, God. He said it, and then said it again. His hands shook and he watched them, enamored, like he’d never seen them do such a thing. He was panting, and it felt like he’d spent the last few weeks swallowing sand rather than being starved, but he kept talking. “He said that I deserved this - all of this, everything.”

Rook had let him go when he moved away, but his arms hung awkwardly in the air, waiting for him to fall. Still, he hadn’t moved to follow Pratt whenever he stumbled back and away from Rook. He was stuck in one place with a rigid line set across his shoulders. Being careful - treating Pratt like he was something fragile, something that would shatter if he even spoke too loud. Like Pratt was broken, damaged, weak, weak  _weak_  weak.

Pratt scowled from the anger that lit up in his chest. It burned through his limbs to the tips of his fingers until they ached. He clenched them into fists, unfurled them, clenched them again. “Maybe I did.”

He didn’t register that he had started moving, not until he was gripping the edge of the control console. The static from the televisions mounted atop buzzed louder from there, and the voices coming from the speakers became much clearer. He ignored them and in turned focused on the sledgehammer leaning up against the console. Its blood-dried head was familiar to him, too many instances of being forced to watch it drop to the ground with another person’s head between the two. Used for training, conditioning muscles to work with weight for extended periods of time -  _gets the first kill jitters out of the way._  He remembered vomiting the first time he’d seen it and the pain of it left an ache in his stomach. Jacob had noticed. The hour that followed was spent with a heavy, cold hand on his neck, an iron-like hold that kept his eyes on the line of bodies, smashed heads. _You’re soft, Peaches. They were soft, too. Weak. You’re gonna learn what happens to the weak real quick, or you’ll be laying right there with them._

Pratt hadn’t cried, or screamed, or begged. He’d learned better, by then.

His skin tingled with rage and he threw most of his weight into heaving the sledgehammer up and over. It dropped down against the plastic casing of the television and the screen popped with an electrical fizz, but all he could hear was the dull thump and crack of a skull. He heard himself scream, didn’t stop screaming, couldn’t feel the rawness in his throat anymore.

Rook was a steady, unforgettable presence behind him, still unmoving even as Pratt swipes at the television again, this time sending it off the console and scattering pieces along the concrete. His panting became harsher, a growling sort of noise rumbling in his chest on every other breath, sparks flying from the head of the hammer when he dragged it along the concrete. Rook watched it all, silent.

Pratt seethed; at Rook, at himself, at  _God_. “Maybe I did.”

There were gun cases stacked against the wall, close to the door and up on pallets to avoid the water that tended to flood the room. It would have been risky, if Pratt hadn’t been so thoroughly conditioned, to keep a prisoner locked in a room with a portion of an armory. If he had been able to free himself from his bindings, he would’ve been able to take out enough Peggie’s to make a sizable dent before they’d finally put him down. He wouldn’t have let them take him alive again. But Jacob never portrayed himself as a fool or much of a risk taker. He was confident and sure, sure that Pratt wouldn’t even attempt to escape, would sit in that chair with or without tape holding him down. Jacob put him in that storage room where he’d be reminded that he was lesser, because even other captives were fed - all a part of the process - and even the guns passed to the greenest of the Faithful were better treated, more respected. Jacob wanted him to know that while he suffered.

But Jacob was dead and Pratt wasn’t.

The lock on the case  _tinked_  when the hammer fell down onto it, clattering to the floor. The rifle inside was heavy in his hands, heated up when he pressed down the trigger and didn’t let go. He didn’t know what he was aiming at, just fired at the walls and pipes until they crumbled, until they burst, until the gun’s mechanism clicked several times in a row.

Until Rook grabbed at his bicep.

He dropped the rifle and let himself be turned, didn’t pull away but didn’t push into it either. Not seeking - never seeking comfort, but knowing better than to resist. “Staci.” That was it, all the man said, but it was firm and the word was underused and full of something that Pratt refused to think about.

So he shook his head, “We need to go.”

\--=--

The ground shook underneath them, and even when it stopped and the earth settled, his muscles didn’t. Whatever had urged him forward before - adrenaline, rage, fear - it seeped out of him in waves and threatened to carry him off. He closed his eyes at the first crack of fireworks and still had them closed by the fourth and fifth, then came to terms that he probably wouldn’t be able to open them again once he felt his whole body tremble.

“Fuck.” Rook was off to Pratt’s left, sounding distressed even though they’d made it out alive. “Fuck, okay, let’s go find a car - “

“I’ll radio ahead,” someone else announced, someone Pratt hadn’t known was there. “Get moving and I’ll tell them to meet you on the road.”

“Okay - okay, thank you.”

He wanted to see who Rook was talking to. He didn’t get to look, though. He’s barely conscious of his head lolling forward and he knew he was about to hit the ground, hard, but he didn’t try to stop it, ready to fall, to rest by whatever definition of the word. Instead of dirt, his forehead thumps against someone’s chest and his head spins because of it. Ready to fall, didn’t know he already had, but he did, done it a while ago, known the whole time.

God, he was exhausted, he was starving, he was aching, he couldn’t keep up with it.

A car door slammed shut and he realized he had been left inside. His head thumped back on the seat and grabbed at his own arms and tucked them close to his chest; he felt like he was going to shake apart.

“ _Stop it_.” Rook was in the car with him now, still on Pratt’s left. A hand was on his shoulder, another on the opposite side of the first on his neck, urging him to turn his head toward Rook. “Staci, stop it, you’re not weak, alright? Fuck. Crazy bastards don’t know what they’re talking about.”

He had been talking, apparently, and only understood what he was saying after he had finished saying it. “You don’t get it,” Pratt told him through a sob he couldn’t stop. “He sees us, he talks to us, he’s - he’s in our heads - “

“He’s dead,” Rook said, twisting the key in the ignition harshly instead of letting his frustration bleed into his voice. “If he spouted all his bullshit and thought he was strong - but he’s dead? What does that make you?”

Pratt didn’t answer, just curled in closer to himself, coughed out silent, dry sobs and waited for his dream to end.

\---=---

Staci slept straight through nearly thirty hours, barely moving and never making a sound. Rook hovered, couldn’t help himself. He had let Tammy work, though, when he first carried the other deputy down into the bunker; wouldn’t let himself get in the way. She didn’t say anything about it; she barely acknowledged him behind her while she checked over the young man. It was an old routine by then, one Rook was used to, but it was different from before. A month ago, Tammy didn’t look him in the eye because she wanted to pretend he wasn’t there, like she refused to believe that the Whitetails could trust him so easily so she kept him out of sight. Possible traitor out of sight, possible traitor out of mind. Now it was like she didn’t look at him because she didn’t want to hate him. Rook made it a hobby of trying not to think about what she saw when she glanced over; a dead-eyed, pale face with blood on his tongue and friends’ deaths in his hands.

“It wasn’t you,” she had said to him, for everyone standing around the fire to hear. They didn’t watch the exchange, not even Rook or Tammy. They all stood side by side and watched the flames pop and wave. “It wasn’t you, Eli knows that.”

It was true, perhaps. Eli knew it but  _they_  still struggled. Tammy was trying, though, so Rook would, too.

Tammy stood up straight with a heaving sigh. “Well, besides being torn to shit and starved, he ain’t too worse for wear on the outside.” She gave Rook a pointed look, then let her eyes travel to the belt around his waist and the cuffs hanging from them. “Might need to put those to use, though.” Then, firmly, as if she expected him to argue, she said, “We don’t know what he’s been through.”

Rook did, had an idea of the extent, at least. Still, he retrieved the handcuffs and passed them off, a little relieved to be rid of them. They clicked around the frame of the bunk bed and then around Staci’s wrist. He didn’t move.

Tammy left after that, telling him he should freshen up, that there was still much to do around the mountains and they could use his help. She didn’t mean to imply she expected him to rejoin the fight immediately - didn’t want him to - but she had been too gruff for too long and forgot how to worry without it sounding like an order from a sergeant.

He made use of a cold shower and the mini kitchen, dropping a frozen waffle into the toaster and holding his freezing fingers over the slot to warm them. It was a struggle to finish the measly excuse for a dinner, but he knew he had to eat something. He had it plain and forced himself to swallow around the worry in his throat.

Hours later, he woke up on the brick-stiff cushions of the couch and still felt hollow. Staci hadn’t stirred.

There was an itch in his spine he couldn’t scratch and he knew he needed to leave soon, but he was dreading it. He didn’t want Staci to wake up alone shackled to a bed in another bunker surrounded unfamiliar faces. He couldn’t stay here any longer, though, doing nothing but waiting; he would be no use to either of them stir crazy and just as frazzled.

Rook leaves his bomber jacket behind, draped over the back of the couch where he knew Staci would see it if he woke up, and settled for a too-large sweatshirt laying around in the spares. He didn’t have an idea on where he was going when he left, but after seeing the room of supplies he knew he needed to find a store that hadn’t been destroyed or raided. When he woke up, Staci would be starving, which was understandable, but Rook didn’t want him getting sick. They would have to start small, liquid to be safe, since he didn’t know for sure how long he’d gone without food and doubted that Staci would remember either.

Juice was the safest bet, but the Whitetails only had stocks of apple juice. Staci hated it, used to tell Rook it was too sweet and he felt like you should have to chew it with how much sugar was in it. He was a weird kid, and wrong. Rook used to drink it just to spite him. He remembered leaving the cap off of the bottle so the scent of it would fill the confines of the patrol car they sometimes shared just to get Staci to fake gag and complain. Rook would pretend to be annoyed, rolled his eyes, told him he was full of shit.

Staci had been an asshole, with bad opinions on good things, and had a cackling sort of laugh that he used to let people know he got a kick out of pissing them off. But Rook was an instigator, the gas poured on the kid’s flame to get him started, and he’d loved that laugh.

Rook took his rifle and borrowed an ATV to make his way down the mountains for some orange juice.

\--=--

Staci was awake when he got back, propped up against the wall with his arm folded over his chest awkwardly due to the cuffs. He watched Rook move around the room silently, eyes wide but otherwise blank. He wanted to say something, Rook knew, but he was holding himself back.

_We don’t know what he’s been through._

Rook dropped his bag onto the couch, pulled out one of his scavenged bottles, twisted the cap off, and passed it to Staci. “Slow,” he warned, and then set off to put the rest away.

The silence is filled with the sounds of cabinets opening and closing, and Rook tried not to get nervous. He knows Staci is watching him and he doesn’t know how to handle it because it felt different. Staci was different, and so was he, and it happened so fast Rook wasn’t sure what to do, what to say.

“You came back.”

Rook turned around and  _the of course I did_  died on his tongue when he saw the other’s expression. Staci was angry and the tone in his voice was accusatory, but what sent Rook reeling was that he wasn’t sure where the anger was directed at. It had a desperate lining to it, like Staci was caught between not knowing whether to beg or scream.

“He - he’s dead, the Whitetail leader - I tried.” Staci didn’t blink away the new wetness in his eyes, kept them on Rook and he was rooted to the ground because of it. “I told you not to come back here, you couldn’t come back, Rook -  _I tried_ , I tried - “

_We have to go, before it starts again._

_He knows you’re ready._

_You can’t ever go back, do you understand me?_

It came back to him like it always did, in parts with jagged edges. Flashes of what kind of training he had been put through. Gunfire, blood hot on his skin, a melody playing and his heart skipping to match the beat of it, someone’s voice desperate in his ears, fingers clenched in the collar of his jacket.

And _fuck_ , Staci did. Rook remembered him leading him around a room and pointing at anything he seemed to think would help them laid out across the space. Staci’s gaze was pleading and his shoulders would hunch in frustration the longer Rook went without understanding. He had tried, Staci told him as best as he could, tried to save them all.

He’d done nothing but let this kid down, over and over again.

\--=--

After waking up the first time in the new bunker, Staci did very little sleeping. Rook couldn’t stand to see him chained up any longer, and ignored the furious glint in Tammy’s eyes when she saw him walking around freely. He didn’t even dare to look at her when he’d given Staci the shotgun, but having it tucked in his grip seemed to ease Staci’s nerves just a touch. He carried it with him everywhere, even when he wore down the floors pacing until his knees shook from it. When he was forced to sit down and rest, he focused on disassembling it, cleaning it, reassembling, then repeating before getting too antsy and starting his pacing back up again.

It was two weeks of that before Rook decided he had to do something lest he lose his own mind. He stopped by, like he always did, in the morning to drop off supplies or a crate of vinyls he picked up for Wheaty - both, most of the time, he hated disappointing the kid - and asked Tammy if she needed anything from him. It was always something small, like picking up some stranded Whitetails that radioed in or retrieving a cache, sometimes liberating a few of the Helpless.

That morning was different. She ushered him over to the table she stood over, told him to watch the kiddie pool, and showed him a map of the mountain range with tiny X’s drawn over certain spots.

“Remember those fucked up elk-callin’ beacons Jacob had set up around the area I had you blow to shit?”

“‘Course.”

“Scouts found another ten of ‘em.” She picked the map up, rolled it, and handed it over. “This place would be better off without the wolves in a frenzy. Do us all a favor and take them out, will you?” She asked, even though it wasn’t exactly a question. Rook didn’t mind, wouldn’t have said no if he had the choice any how.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“A lot of those, they’re in some high up places that're a bitch to get up on foot. You’ll be better off flying over and dropping hell on ‘em.” Tammy offered him a very small and brittle grin, but it was genuine. “Heard Rye and Adelaide’s got a soft spot for you, though. They’d be glad to knock a few Seed properties over.”

Rook hummed but didn’t say much more. He folded the map and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans, then made his way toward the room where Staci holed up. Rook always tried to make as much noise as he could to give the other enough of a warning to his presence rather than surprise him and earn a slug to the gut. Staci’s wide eyes are on the doorway before he even walked through it, just as Rook intended. He’s standing across the room from a plate of eggs he probably made himself but won’t ever eat, keeping his distance. Going through the motions but never following through.

The shotgun isn’t in his hands, but it’s close by on the bunk bed. Rook considered it progress.

“Hey, man.”

Staci crossed his arms, nodded once. He was always nervous, now. Rook knew he was waiting for something to happen, like Jacob would storm into the bunker and drop him, or he’d wake up in a cage covered in mud and starving, having the past few weeks all been a dream. He never let himself relax because he wanted to be ready when it all fell apart again.

Rook grabbed his bomber jacket off the back of the couch. Staci’s eyes followed the movement. “I’ve got some stuff that needs blown up,” he stated, stuffing one arm through the jacket’s sleeve. He took his time fixing the sweatshirt that bunched up when he did so as to avoid looking at Staci. Easier to lie that way. “A few of ‘em are deep in the mountains, and flying would be the easier way to knock them all out. Problem is, though, Adelaide’s busy, something about yoga and her...Xander.” He wrinkled his nose for show and moved to work on the other sleeve. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask, better to leave that alone, you know how Addie is. Leaves little to the imagination. Anyway, so she’s out, and Nick’s busy with his baby, and I wouldn’t ask him to leave her, so - “ He adjusts the collar to sit right and he’s forced to meet Staci’s eyes. He shrugged and finished lamely with, “So. I’m in need of a pilot.”

On the bright side, Staci doesn’t look terrified with the idea of it, but he does just keep staring at Rook with that wide-eyed, blank stare he’s adopted.

“Look, I know you haven’t flown since…” He trailed off and acted like he didn’t notice the way Staci began to chew furiously at the inside of his cheek.

Maybe it was a stupid thing to ask - insensitive, even. Rook had no idea what it must have been like for him that night, to be the one who was responsible for their escape, to feel the weight of the chopper gradually climb when Faithful piled on to the dash, latched on to the sides. Feel the heli lose control. To have been the first to be pulled from the wreckage.

“I - “ Staci stopped, dropped his arms, shifted from foot to foot, and then crossed his arms again. “I - I can try.” Rook raised a brow in question, almost not quite believing Staci had spoken at all. “Yeah, I can do it.”

Rook blinked. “Are you sure? It’s not a big deal, it can wait, really not a big deal.”

Staci’s brow furrowed, but his face twitched like he wanted to smile, but didn’t remember how to. “No. Fuck it. I need - I need to get out of here.”

Rook watched him sift around the bottom bunk until he found the deputy green button up and pulled it on over his tee. He didn’t bother doing the buttons, left it undone and hoisted the shotgun back into his arms.

“You’re gonna need a coat.”

Staci startled himself with a scoff but recovered quick enough to say, “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s seven in the morning in the Whitetails, Stace, put on a fuckin’ jacket. It’s freezing outside.”

“Your idea of freezing is, like, fifty degrees. I’ll be fine.”

Rook turned to lead them toward the exit of the bunker, but also to hide the overjoyed, self-satisfied smile on his face. “We’ll be in the air for ten minutes before you ask for my jacket, bet.”

Staci scoffed again. “Bullshit.”

\--=--

It's about thirty minutes before Pratt has the jacket, and it wasn't him who asked for it, but rather Rook asking him for the millionth time if he was cold before he conceded and pulled it on. He told himself it was to get Rook to shut up, that it wasn't because he didn't want the man to worry.

The Montana skies were wide and clear, barely any winds to worry about. Not that Pratt was too worried about winds; he'd always been a capable pilot, but the chopper Rook had waiting for them on the pad was better than anything the Sheriff's Office would've ever been able to afford. It was sleek, quick, a dream to handle, and it acted like a boulder against a river's current in the air.

Rook was always caught between seats; either up front, navigating for Pratt with a map rippling harshly in his hands, or knelt in the back of the chopper with an RPG resting on his shoulder.

A part of Pratt wished he had been there when Rook stole the stuff, wanted to see the Faithfuls' faces when a helicopter was lifted from under their noses, to be there when people of their resistance celebrated all the new gear and weapons their favorite deputy brought them. It had been a reoccurring thought. A lot of his nights were spent wishing he had done a lot of things, could do many things. Wished he had woken up just a little sooner that night, didn't panic when he did regain consciousness and got his seat belt off faster, crawled from the wreckage and fled with Rook.

But that wasn't true, was it? He'd wanted all of those things at first - anything other than the cage and the box and the haze of red, but it all came down to one thing. If he got the chance, Pratt wouldn't be there, where he was. None of them would. If he got to do it all over, be in the seat he was in again, he would follow through with his hesitation, bring the chopper back up and tell the marshal to fuck off. Fuck off and jump out if he really wanted to be a part of the mess that was under them. If he had just went against orders, endured the punishment he was sure to have gotten for it, Pratt could have fucking saved them all. But he didn't, because a sick part of him had wanted to see what would happen.  

Pratt kept them steady as Rook reloaded his launcher and took a breath.

He thought flying again would help, make him feel more like himself, who he was before. It did, in a sense. If he got high enough, the county below was too small to see the details and for a few seconds at a time he could pretend that it was months ago. He would be finishing up a 'maintenance check', needed to take the bird out just to make sure everything was working as intended, then he'd laugh when Whitehorse rolled his eyes at him, muttered something like, " _Don't give me that bullshit, Pratt. You're just avoiding paperwork_." But he'd let him go, only to give him the  _I told you so_  look everybody over fifty seemed to have built into them when Pratt was swamped the next morning.

But then Rook would curse loudly behind him, or next to him, or the sound of his rocket launcher would go off, something would explode, and Pratt would be right back where he was. Reality.

It was stupid, anyway. Thinking about what he could've done, or should've done, or what he'd never do because he was weak that way. Always acted important, better, like someone worth something, but he wasn't. All he did was hold his position over people, made it seem like he was worthy of if and more, but he wasn't, was he? He had a boot on his chest and dirt in his mouth and nothing in his lungs and he wasn't  _anything_ , nothing but  _meat, Peaches, just meat for someone bigger_.

He hadn't seen Whitehorse since the crash.

"That was the last one," Rook said when he slid back into the seat next to Pratt. "Start wrapping around east, take us back to the Den."

Pratt followed his orders wordlessly, knew that Rook took immediate notice in his sudden mood change.  Thankfully, he remained quiet for the moment, content to sit back and watch the treetops as they flew over them.

It's mid-afternoon by the time Pratt set the bird down back on its helipad. The sun was on the right side of the mountain and the shade had settled long enough for the air to be frigid. He went through the process of shutting everything down, working on autopilot and hardly thinking - not about the chopper, at least. Rook hadn't gotten out yet, wasn't doing anything, though. Just sat there, a thoughtful look on his face.

Pratt's hand shook when he reached for the latch to his door, rested there, not getting out either.

"I'm going after Joseph," Rook told him after a long suffering sigh.

His head jerked up, gawked at the other man. "Wh - "

"We have to end this," Rook continued, firmly, no room for argument. "And it won't end if he's still an acting leader."

"No." He sounded like he was begging, like he was outraged, like he was terrified. "No, Rook - "

"This is how it has to be, Stace."

Pratt scoffed, looked away from him. He shook his head, pulled the latch, and was out of the helicopter and storming toward the entrance to the Den. The blades had stopped whirring, so he heard Rook following him clear as day.

"Staci - "

Pratt spun around, arm raised like was going to push him away, but he immediately retreated, shocked at himself. "Don't -  _don't_  fucking 'Staci' me," he still seethed. "You - we're not even supposed to  _be_  here, Rook. We have to go, should've gotten away from here when you got me out of that fucking bunker - "

Rook closed the space between them carefully and slowly, reached for Pratt's arms and held them. "We can't leave the people with the county the way it is. They're going through hell, just like us."

"Rook, he's right, the Father, he saw what was happening before and it’s happening now and - and no one even seems to give a shit except the fucking  _crazy_  people!"

"Staci."

This time he does put his hands on Rook, grabbing the front of his shirt in both fists. Pratt wanted to shake him until his brain bounced around and set back in his skull correctly, because something was not connecting for the man. Something wasn't sitting right for him not to understand. Maybe it was his own hero complex, blinded by the need to save, or denial or fear,  _something_.

"There's broadcasts, Rook, you had to have heard them - they're dropping bombs - he said it would happen, that we're all going to burn for our sins and - and that those who would let themselves be saved will be saved - just - everything he's said would happen is happening and you're - you're not seeing it!"

Rook didn't try to pry his hands off him, only tightened his grip on Pratt, seemingly fueled by the same kind of distress that colored Pratt's words. "People have been predicting wars and catastrophes since forever, it doesn't give him the right to do all _this_."

He wasn't going to listen, Pratt realized. His chest filled with the too-cold mountain air. "Please," he tried again, but it was weak and feeble, because he knew the other's mind had been made.

He was pulled closer and pressed into Rook's shoulder, where his nose was hidden from the chill. "I just got you back, Stace." Pratt could feel lips at his temple, hands fisted into the jacket that wasn't his. He screwed his eyes shut and hugged Rook back, fiercely. "And I'm not fucking losing you again to this fucker, okay? Not to him, not to some fucking nukes from over-fucking-seas. Nothing. I'm getting us all out of here. I got too fucking far for a shitty ending."

Pratt stayed silent, fought the urge to pull away but also resisted the need to curl closer. He just stood there feeling hollow, feeling like he'd failed.

Just stood there, and allowed Rook to lie to him.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for the rust. if there's smth you want to see tagged that isnt, let me know. :^)


End file.
